


The First (Last) Night

by Malu_3 (Grainne)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Episode: s01e05 Lancelot, Gen, Merlin Canon Fest, Post-Episode: s01e05 Lancelot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-19 17:21:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20660906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grainne/pseuds/Malu_3
Summary: Regrets, Lancelot discovers, are not as easy to leave behind as a horse or a suit of armour.





	The First (Last) Night

**Author's Note:**

> ** Disclaimer:** Merlin characters are the property of Shine and BBC. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended. Italicized quotes are from the episode "Lancelot" written by Jake Michie.
> 
> Thank you Canon Fest Mods! (And apologies to the griffin, who really wanted me to tell his side of the story, but I went with some Lancelot feeeeelings instead. Someday, noble griffin. Someday.)

_"When I was a boy, my village was attacked by raiders from the northern plains. They were slaughtered where they stood, my father, my mother. Everyone. I alone escaped. I vowed that day that never again would I be helpless in the face of tyranny. I made sword craft my life. Every waking hour since that day, I devoted to the art of combat, and when I was ready, I set forth for Camelot. And now, it seems, my journey ends. Everything I fought for, wasted."_

Lancelot closes his eyes, pressing his face to the folded cloak. It's probably his mind playing tricks, but he fancies he can still smell the traces of their goodbyes: Guinevere's hair oil; Arthur's fresh morning sweat; the comforting blend of candle wax, earth, and bitter herbs that clings to Merlin's jacket. 

Each of them had breached the distance he'd fought to maintain, pulling him close for a hug or a hearty slap on the back. He'd broken their trust, brought nothing but discord to Camelot. He was hardly worthy of their esteem, yet still they'd embraced him, and in the moment Lancelot hadn't been able to resist such honest physical affection. 

Orphaned at six and a wanderer since, he's had precious little of it. His time in Camelot had been a revelation—a veritable feast of beauty and wit, of purpose and comradeship—but now, he knows, he must set it aside. He must think on it as a dream and start anew.

"Thank you," he murmurs, placing the cloak atop the mound of maille and armour. "Fates willing, I shall return." 

He leaves an offering for the Mother Goddess, then crawls backwards out of the cave, dousing his torch at its entrance. He seals the cave mouth up with rubble and deadfall, retrieves his sword, and picks his way back down to the path. He'd left his mount at the last farm he'd passed, so he departs much as he'd arrived—on foot, weighed down by nothing but sharp steel and his own expectations.

But there are regrets now, too, and as he walks he discovers that regrets are not so simple to leave behind as a horse or a suit of armour. 

_"I give you my word, whatever it takes, I will make this right."_ Merlin with his wide, solemn eyes; that compelling mix of fey beauty and steely conviction. Believing him, believing _in_ him with no hesitation, risking his own place at Arthur's side and trusting Lancelot not to betray his secrets.

_"I'm sorry, too. Because, Lancelot, you fight like a knight. And I need...Camelot needs..."_ Arthur, strong and fair—the most vital man Lancelot has ever set eyes on—yet distraught, looking at Lancelot like he was the answer to something, and not just the current crisis with the griffin. And even if Lancelot hadn't trusted his own eyes, he'd heard it from the guards and the other knights: no other prospect had rattled Arthur so on the training ground, no newcomer since Merlin had provoked the prince into grandstanding in the lower town, nor driven him to raise his voice to his father.

_"Don't go, Lancelot. Please."_ Gwen roused from her bed, fierce and lovely, caught off guard and raw in her emotion, yet still more of a lady than most of the supposed ladies he's met, women who may be comely but are nowhere near as skilled, nor as honest, kind, and brave of heart.

When he comes to a fork in the path, Lancelot bows his head and takes a deep breath. If he keeps to the left he'll be over the border and in the mountains by nightfall. Hidden. Safe. Alone.

To the right, the path follows the river, servicing the remote villages of Cromlin and Roughwood before curving back towards the great forests that surround the city. There's a decent tavern in Cromlin, a not-so-decent inn in Roughwood. Both welcome travellers who mean no trouble and can pay in coin. Neither proprietor, he reckons, will remember his face come morning.

Lancelot opens his eyes, runs a hand through his hair. Then, chin up and shoulders set, he turns to the right.

He's not looking for bodily comfort or the oblivion of strong drink. But. For one night at least, one last night, he wants to be among Arthur's people—Gwen's people, Merlin's people. Here, he can look them in the eye and imagine himself their true champion one day. Here, perhaps, he can start believing himself worthy of love.

* * *


End file.
